Skyfall
by mktoddsparky
Summary: "If my suspicions are correct," Castiel says grimly, "then Metatron's seize of Heaven might not have been purely about revenge after all."
1. one

**Skyfall**

**~.**

_Even if you fall sometimes, _

_you will have the strength to rise._

_**-** **What Faith Can Do; Kutlass**_

**~.**

The first thing that Castiel is aware of is the sky falling.

There are comets streaking across the blue depths with startling frequency, plummeting down and landing across the lake and clearing in front of him. Far off in the distance, several of the fallen have landed in the forest and now flames are licking their way up the pines, roaring in their quest to reach the heavens. The lake is smoking, churning with the force of the recent impacts. Heads bob up like ants across the surface of the water, too many to count. Smoke has gathered in the air itself, mixed with a faint taste of ash on his tongue that Castiel knows to be bits of feathers.

Without thinking, he reaches out with his Grace toward his fallen brethren, and that is when he runs into the aching silence.

He can hear nothing. Absolutely nothing. A low moan sounds from his throat and Castiel drops to his knees, tears gathering in his eyes. Even when he had been punished before for aiding the Winchesters, he had not been cut off from the Heavenly Host, not entirely. The silence is deafening in its own right, pressing in on Castiel and stealing his breath. The suffocation only grows in intensity when he remembered his fatal mistake, the one that brought all of this about.

_I have murdered my own kind, yet again_, Castiel thinks, fingers stretching up to dig into his temples. _I was too proud, and I have damned them all._

There is a grating sound that Castiel recognizes as his own sobs. Fingernails drawing bloody trails down his temples, he begins to mumble under his breath, praying to his Father.

"Please," he begs through the tears stinging his eyes. "Please don't let it remain like this, Father. Have mercy."

There is no response. Of course there isn't. Castiel has sinned terribly and there is nothing conceivably _enough_ that could redeem him. His existance is pointless and painful to those he has damned. Fingers scrabbling down his sides, Castiel urges his angel blade down his sleeve, fingers grasping at empty air when it doesn't appear.

"If you will not give my brothers and sisters what they have unfairly lost," he whispers, throat rough with crying, "then, Father, allow me to redeem myself. Let me end my miserable existance." Castiel bows his head forward as more tears trickle down, damning each tear-drop. His forehead touches the ground. He continues to mumble slurred words, transitioning between English, Hebrew, and Enochian.

"Father," he murmers at last, voice nearly gone. When Castiel raises his head again, his forehead is covered in a thin layer of dirt and tears have been smudged across his cheeks and nose. He watches as more angels are cast from Heaven, can nearly hear their screams as they fall down in a brilliant, blazing display. His vision blurs over with tears again and he turns away, unable to watch anymore.

"End me, for I serve no purpose here anymore."

**~.**

Dean watches in horror as the last of the angels fall. He can see a fire starting at the edge of the lake and knows that the firefighters and police will be here soon enough. _We have to go_, he tells himself firmly, shaking his head as the image of an angel's wings burning away fills his mind. _Got to keep Sammy safe_.

Sam is still leaning against the car, shivering. When Dean approaches him, Sam makes a valiant attempt to sit up, but all he succeeds in doing is collapsing in a fit of coughing. He presses a hand to his mouth instinctively - maybe Dean's nagging about manners is finally kicking in - and when Sam pulls it away, it's covered in flecks of blood.

Dean, busy collecting the last of their stuff, looks over to check on Sam and freezes at the sight.

He's going to die, Naomi had said. Cas had been so sure that the bitch was lying, but looking at his brother now, Dean isn't sure. He doesn't know who or what to believe. All he knows is that they have to get out of here now.

"Up and at 'em, Sammy-boy," Dean tries, going for cheerful.

Sam coughs again, the look on his face weakly amused and appreciative of Dean's behavior. "I'd say I have a valid reason to sleep in, Dean."

"Not until we get back to the bunker, do you," Dean retorts, leaning down and taking hold of Sam's right arm. It's like gripping a tree trunk, Dean thinks as he tightens his hold and pulls. Sam hauls himself up with a groan, staggering into Dean the moment that he's fully standing.

"Whoa, whoa," Dean growls, propping up Sam as best he's able. Maneuvering them to the right spot, Dean opens the back door of the Impala and begins to shove Sam in.

"No more shotgun?" Sam wonders blearily. By the look in his eyes, Dean is surprised that Sam is still awake. But he has to stay awake, Dean thinks, alarm pounding in his system. If he falls asleep, Sam has no guarantee of waking back up.

"No lying down," Dean orders, reaching for Sam's seatbelt.

Sam swats his hand away weakly. "I think I can handle that myself, Dean."

"Just trying to help." Dean presses his lips into a thin line and shuts the door behind Sam before hurrying over to the driver's side. Just before he climbs in, Dean can't keep himself from glancing around at the surroundings, just in case Cas was up there when all hell broke loose. Images begin to run through Dean's mind even as he shuts them down: Cas lying in the underbrush, bleeding, alone. Cas lying at the bottom of the lake, eyes open and glassy.

_Stop it_, he tells himself, and clambers into the Impala. _Sam is the priority right now. Sam needs help. Keep Sammy safe._

When did that start becoming his mantra again? Or had it ever not been?

Dean determines that he'd rather not think about that, so he doesn't. Instead, to make sure that Sam stays awake (and to keep himself sane,) Dean reaches for one of his classic rock tapes and slips it in, cranking up the music. Sam groans in the back, and it's so normal that Dean nearly laughs.

But then Dean makes the mistake of looking in the rear-view mirror. Sam's face is gaunt, skeleton-like, and there is blood smudged around his pale lips.

Dean twists the keys in the ignition and pounds his foot down on the gas.

**~.**

As Dean steers the Impala down the dirt road leading to the Men of Letters bunker, he tries calling Kevin half a dozen times. When at last he parks the car and helps a half-unconscious Sam out, Dean is fuming. Some part of him wonders if something has happened to the dorky prophet.

He tries Kevin's cell one more time. No answer.

"I'm going to stab him in the neck," Dean hisses as he drags Sam toward the bunker door. Once there, he begins banging on the door, wanting to yell but afraid that he'll attract more attention. They might be pretty far out here, but there's no telling who might be listening, especially with Heaven's fluffy puppets gone human.

After about two minutes of banging, there is the sound of the door being unlocked. Kevin sticks his head out warily, the rings under his eyes exacerbated by the light over the entrance. When he sees who it is, his eyes light up.

"I thought you guys were long gone. I've been going crazy back here. All the lights on the control panel were lighting up and I didn't know what the hell was going on, and -"

"Hey," Dean snaps. "Would you mind, I don't know, actually _letting us in_?" His arms are beginning to hurt from propping up Sam. Sam's head is lolling forward, eyes beady slits.

Kevin's eyes widen. "Oh, right. Sorry." He opens the door wider and ushers them forward, slamming the door behind them. "So what the hell happened out there?"

"Metatron betrayed us all," Dean says flatly, not wanting to add the part where Cas might have been involved, because he can't quite believe that this time. "The angels fell. All of them."

A little squeak escapes the prophet. Face red, he shakes his head and murmers, "I just can't believe that he would do that. I thought he was one of the _good_ guys."

"One would think," Dean answers, voice a little strangled as he begins hauling Sam's dead weight down the hall to the gigantor's room. "But we usually don't have that kind of luck." He really hopes that Kevin doesn't tag after him. He needs to make sure that Sammy is all settled in, and chattering will do nothing to further that process.

But Kevin, as usual, doesn't perform to expectations. "Well, I'm just glad you're both okay. I didn't expect to see you again, not after-" he gestures toward the sky as though it explains everything. Dean's throat tightens.

"If you hadn't notice," Dean snaps, "we're not both _okay_. Just give us some space, okay?" He feels kind of bad when Kevin's face falls. "Look man, I just-"

"No, I get it," Kevin says, voice shaky-soft. "I'll just, um, find myself a couch or something." He turns and scurries off.

Dean makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat, throwing a "son of a bitch" in there before turning his attention back to Sammy.

"Hey, big guy, you doin' alright?" he asks, trying to keep his voice light and failing. The worry has seeped through to his bones and the adrenaline he'd had earlier has started vanishing, leaving him sweating and exhausted.

Sam mumbles something unintelligable. Dean pulls him along faster.

The moment they reach Sam's room, Dean wrenches the door open and leads Sam to the bed, flopping him down as gently as possible. He hasn't been in here much. The room is very Sam, with a collection of law books and other nerd stuff in a set of shelves against the far wall, clothes perfectly organized into colored plaid in the corner closet.

Turning his attention back to the mumbling moose on the bed, Dean methodically strips Sam of his extra clothes, leaving Sam in a wife beater and boxer shorts. When he goes to pull away, Dean's hand presses to Sam's shoulder and he stiffens at the heat. Too hot. He reaches up higher, holding his palm against Sam's forehead for a few seconds. _Yeah, definitely too hot_. _Fever_.

It only takes him a minute to get a wash-cloth from the bathroom. When he comes back, Sam is twitching on the bed, a frown on his face. Dean presses the moist wash-cloth to Sam's forehead and his brother sighs, going still. Slowly, Dean presses the wash-cloth to Sam's face and upper torso until he's satisfied Sam has cooled down. Even still, Dean makes sure to tuke an extra blanket around Sam.

Done, Dean heads to the doorway, flicking the light-switch off as he goes. The room plummets into darkness, the shred of light from the doorway illuminating Sam's pale face. All Dean can do is pray now (okay, maybe not,) and hope that Sam will wake up. Heart in his throat, the elder Winchester nearly closes the door, leaving it open just enough so he'll be able to hear Sam, and then heads for the kitchen.

As good as a cold beer sounds right about now, Dean heads instead for the coffee maker, pouring a generous amount of water and coffee grinds in. He's in for a long night (not like he'll be able to sleep when Sam's life is on the line) and plenty of coffee is in order.

While he waits, Dean lies aimlessly in one of the chairs in the main room, reading over a handful of Kevin's notes on the angel tablet. The kid had done good, Dean could admit, especially after being put under so much pressure. Cas had gone full angel on Kevin for a minute there and while Dean was confident that the angel wouldn't actually have stabbed Kevin, he wasn't sure what Cas would have done to persuade him.

_Cas_. Dean screws his eyes shut and then regrets it as the world swims in front of him. He has no idea where the damn angel is and if he actually had anything to do with Metatron's scheme. As much as he'd like to dismiss it as Cas going back to his old ways - though Dean has no desire to reopen old wounds, primarily those days with the civil war in Heaven and Raphael - there's something that has shifted between them, something Dean can't bring himself to name, and he's incapable of believing that Cas would go behind their backs like that. If Cas had had anything to do with the whole angel-Metatron-revenge scheme, it was because he was coerced.

This time, Dean isn't going to make the same mistake as he had back when Cas was dealing with the civil war. This time he is going to listen first, strike next if necessary. Not like striking Cas would do much good, because - wait. If the angels had fallen, Cas must've fallen too. The epiphany sends Dean's world reeling again, and he's inflicted with a whole new set of worries because Cas may have been watching humanity for millennia, but he doesn't actually know how to live like one.

The coffee-pot stops making the whooshing noises and beeps. The smell of coffee drifts into the room and Dean follows it back to the kitchen, pushing Cas from his mind for the time being. Or, at least, trying to.

**~.**

Dean is awakened by a soft tapping noise.

Pushing his head off the table, lips disconnecting with a sucking noise, Dean tries to make out the source of the noise. It comes again, but he's still too disoriented to make it out. Dean groans as he realizes that he must've fallen asleep at the table. So much for staying awake and watching over Sammy.

The tapping comes a third time. It's knocking, Dean realizes, already moving quickly toward the door. As he moves, Dean grabs a handgun from the bookshelf near to the bunker entrance, really hoping that something supernatural hasn't found them already.

Loading and releasing the safety on the gun, Dean cracks the door open. He sucks in a breath.

Castiel stands there in the doorway, trench-coat covered in dirt and grass stains, his face dismantled with much of the same. His hair looks like a tornado has hit it, and if Dean looks closely enough, he can see dried blood on Castiel's temples. _Damn it_.

"Cas?" Dean croaks, unable to look away from the angel's face.

Castiel raises his head and meets Dean's gaze and oh, no. Dean can see it immediately in the dull flicker of Castiel's eyes.

"You're human," Dean says slowly, his voice still too soft, rough with sleep.

Castiel says nothing, does nothing. He only continues to look at Dean with those ancient, shattered eyes, the slight quiver beginning in Castiel's knees the only indication that he must be exhausted.

"How did you get here?" Dean asks. He should really get Cas inside before the angel collapses.

Castiel, of course, doesn't directly answer the question. So, that hasn't changed. "I did not plan on coming here at all."

The meaning of the words hits Dean immediately after.

"What do you mean?" he demands, trying not to be hurt. "Where were you going to go?"

Castiel opens his mouth and then closes it, the movement strangely human. _He is human now_, a little voice in Dean's head reminds him.

"I am an abomination," Castiel says in his gravelly tone. He makes it sound so simple, so matter of fact, but there is an undercurrent to his voice that Dean can sense. It's just out of his reach. And then, as Dean looks at the furrows in Castiel's temples and the dried blood on his fingernails, he grasps it in all its horror.

"Don't you dare," Dean growls. He pokes a finger at Castiel, regretting it when Cas flinches back. "Don't you dare do that to me."

Castiel tilts his head, just slightly. "I don't see what this has to do with you," he responds softly.

That hurts. "You don't think I care about you?" Dean asks roughly, rubbing a hand over his eyes as he tries to regain his balance. "Do you think I've kept you around all this time because you were a _good little soldier_?"

Castiel says nothing, but that means everything.

"You've got a damn low sense of self-worth, don't you?" Dean pushes.

He nearly misses the quiver of Castiel's mouth. Castiel, who had been looking anywhere but at Dean, finally meets Dean's frustrated gaze. His eyes are too shiny.

"Get in here, you son of a bitch," Dean orders, wrapping an arm around Castiel's back when the angel (ex, now) refuses to move. "At least have a cup of coffee before you seriously think about ending yourself."

Castiel jerks away, his face suddenly open, raw. Dean can't begin to fathom the pain he sees there, but he knows that he'll try all the same.

"Dean," Castiel hisses. "I have just condemned my entire kind because of one stupid mistake. I deserve to be punished."

"By _dying_?" Dean snaps. He throws out his arms. "Sorry if I don't understand how that works. How does you offing yourself solve anything?"

"My very existance causes pain and suffering," bellows Castiel. He goes completely rigid, eyes burning with self-loathing. "You felt the very same of yourself when you got out of hell. Tell me Dean, if you did not deserve to live, then how am I any different?"

"Because you showed me that I did deserve to live!" Dean screams. Castiel doesn't move, but his eyes remain fixed on Dean's. "You right, okay, Cas? When I was in hell and when I first got out, I didn't think I deserved to be out, let alone breathing. Not after I tortured so many innocent souls. But you showed me differently. You gave me a purpose, a reason to keep fighting. Without you, I would probably be a demon by now, if not dead."

Dean takes a deep breath, spreading out his hands in a gesture of good-will. "If you thought I was worth saving, then, by God-" Castiel flinches at that, "-I think you're worth saving too. And I'll put everything I've got into making you believe that."

Castiel doesn't speak for a long moment. Dean thinks that if the angel had been in control of his old abilities, Cas probably would have flown the coop right about now. It's what he has always done when things get too difficult, too emotional.

"Cas," he attempts at last, voice much softer now.

"Do not pity me, Dean." Castiel's eyes, narrowed now, dare Dean to contradict him.

"When in my life have I ever pitied you?" Dean asks with a frustrated little nose in the back of his throat. He knew that changing Castiel's mind wouldn't be done in one conversation, but he wishes that it had all the same. Seeing Cas like this sends his thoughts back to the motel room when the angel first told Dean that he was suicidal. It scares Dean more than he's willing to admit. "Just come inside, would you? It's too damn early to be doing this."

At first, Castiel doesn't move, and Dean is afraid that he won't come in, that all of this will have been for nothing. But then there is a shift and Castiel hobbles his way through the door.

"Do you want coffee?" Dean asks as he closes the door behind them.

Castiel shakes his head, not facing Dean. His shoulders droop and then hitch. Little sounds fill the room and Dean places a cautious hand on his friend's back, luxuriating in the warmth that spreads through him at the contact. "Cas?"

Castiel turns, then, revealing his tear stained cheeks and crumpled face. Tiny sobs are forcing their way out of him and Dean's heart throbs in his chest at the sight. Without much thought, he enfolds Castiel into his arms, rubbing his back and murmering meaningless things into the angel's ear.

"All of them," Castiel chokes out, burying his face into Dean's neck. "Falling. I couldn't - I couldn't -"

"Shh," Dean whispers, rocking them back and forth and hoping that he's not doing a rubbish job. "Everything will be fine."

"You know that isn't true," comes the whimpered response as Castiel's body shakes in Dean's arms.

"No," Dean admits, running one hand through Castiel's hair and trying not to admit to himself how much he's always wanted to do that. Now is not the time. "But you know what I always say." He leans back a little, tipping Castiel's chin up until the angel is looking at him through bloodshot eyes. "One ex-blood junkie, a high school drop out with six bucks to his name, and a fallen angel." Dean grins. "What could possibly go wrong?"

If Cas were anyone else, he'd have rolled his eyes. As it is, he growls through his tears, "Everything."

Dean sighs melodramatically. "Always the pessimistic one, aren't we?"

Castiel's only response is to offer up a tight-lipped smile. "I believed you promised coffee?"

"Yeah," Dean says, "but I didn't actually think you'd take me up on it."

Castiel actually shrugs. "I've grown to have a fondness for it."

Dean smiles. "Look, he's adjusting already." He squeezes Castiel's shoulder when the angel's face falls. "C'mon, I think I still have half a pot from last night."

With that, they head to the kitchen, Dean's arm wrapped firmly around the angel's shoulders. Finally, after all this time, Team Free Will is back together.


	2. two

**Skyfall**

-part two-

**~.**

_"[Saint Anthony] said, in his solitude, he sometimes encountered devils who looked like angels, and other times he found angels who looked like devils. When asked how he could tell the difference, the saint said that you can only tell which is which by the way you feel after the creature has left your company." _

_- Eat, Pray, Love_

**~.**

**a/n:** So obviously, I decided to continue this story. We'll see how long it gets. **Warning: graphic violence. **

**~.**

By the time that they're settled down, each with a cup of lukewarm coffee, the tears on Castiel's face have nearly dried.

Nearly. Every time that Castiel bends his head and brings the cup of coffee to his lips, the light hits his face in a certain way and Dean can see the criss-crossed tracks, translucent. It makes Dean slow down and give the guy a minute to collect himself. Where Dean would normally be firing questions at the angel - _ex_-angel now, his brain unhelpfully supplies - he now sits quietly, the twitching edge of his mouth his only movement, and watches Castiel's eyes trace the flecks of coffee grounds on the inside edge of his cup.

Eventually, however, Dean's patience runs thin. He's running on a few hours of sleep - which used to not be unusual; only, now that they've got the bunker, Dean has been trying to get at least six hours - and Sammy is still asleep in his room, periodically breaking out in a fever, showing no signs of actually improving. Dean begins to tap his left foot against his right calf as he resolutely keeps watching Castiel, the object of said attention having no apparent desire to start a conversation. The man is now playing with the sleeve of his trenchcoat, staring at the frayed edges with a sad sort of amazement.

"So, um, Sam and I were there, by the church, when the - uh, when the angels started falling," Dean mutters at last, trying and failing to broach the topic with tact. In his seat, Castiel flinches just barely. "Did you, I mean - damn it, man, you know I'm no good at this." Clenching his fingers around his coffee mug, Dean waits for some kind of response from the man across from him. Anything would be nice.

When Castiel finally looks up, there is a blank, glazed edge to his eyes. He opens his mouth, pausing to think, and Dean waits for his explanation, fingers too tight around the mug.

"You know, I remember when you first discovered coffee. Before you started brewing it, you'd just chew the berries," Castiel says, sounding amused.

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Why does this sound like a speech you've given before?"

Castiel doesn't actually answer. He only bends his head and takes another sip of his coffee. Busted.

They sit in silence for another moment. Dean lets Castiel sip his coffee, shaking his head at the man.

"My apologies," the trench-coated figure mumbles at last. He gives Dean a reproachful look. "I thought that you had started to appreciate the little things in life."

"Whoa," Dean snaps, shoving his chair back and leaning over the table. He stabs a finger at Castiel. "You don't get to do that. Especially not now, not after you went cloud seeding with Metatron, or whatever the hell you angels do when plotting heavenly domination. I saw the angels fall, and do you know what I thought?" His voice rings across the room, tight with anger. Quivering in midair, his finger begins to look a bit overdramatic. He lowers it. "Well, _do you_?"

Castiel's head snaps back down toward his cup. Quickly, Dean snatches the cup away from Castiel before he can bury himself behind it, tossing it across the room. It crashes to the floor with a shattering sound, and Dean grits his teeth. _Shouldn't have done that_. His damn temper is always costing him; that mess is going to be a bitch to clean.

From his vantage point, Dean can barely make out the unnatural shine in Castiel's eyes. Regret begins to worm its way in, but not enough to stop him.

"I thought you'd betrayed us all again," Dean spits, fingers digging into the table-top. "That after all that self-righteous talk about being the only one good enough to stop everything, you'd gone Godstiel again. Only this time, a few thousand angels wasn't enough. No, you had to screw _all_ of them over."

Castiel is trembling. He's still not looking at Dean, but even Dean can see that he's crossed a huge line.

Dean's heart sinks in his chest. After all this time worrying about stumbling upon the angel's corpse, he had to go and make some stupid comment about the thing Castiel regrets the most.

"Cas," he begins, voice softer. "Shit, man, I shouldn't have-"

"Your apologies are not necessary, Dean," Castiel murmers. He raises his head and Dean's heart stops in his chest at the blank expression on the angel's face. Too blank, hiding too much.

"Cas," Dean tries again, reaching out for his friend.

Castiel rises to his feet slowly, pushing the chair back as he stands. Dean can see Castiel's legs quivering as they try to support his weight.

"I think I would like to rest now," Castiel says. "If you have an extra room, I would be much obliged."

Dean doesn't like how he's talking. It's robotic, like the Castiel he met in the barn years ago, the one who'd been stabbed and had simply stared at him with bird-like curiosity. Like the Castiel who hadn't given everything for Dean.

The Castiel that only Dean has the power to bring back. His heart sinks to the floor, sluggish and slimy with self-loathing.

"Yeah," Dean mutters after a pause. "Yeah, sure. Follow me." He resists the urge to reach out and help Castiel move, instead taking the lead and showing the angel down the hall. His brain, previously buzzing with thoughts and emotions, feels numb now. He can't think of what to do or say.

Castiel's shoes squeak against the wooden floor-boards. Dean bites his lower lip, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment as they begin to water. When he opens them again, they are clear, and Dean is able to navigate down the hall. It isn't even that hard, just a thin hallway forming a T at the end. He stops briefly before his door, the crazy thought worming its way into his head. _Maybe if I give him my room, he'd_ - no. Instead, Dean ushers Castiel into a room two doors down from Dean's. Sam's room is still around the corner, at the left end of the _T, _and with his door open, Castiel will probably be able to see Sam exiting or entering.

"I'll bring you some blankets and stuff." Dean hesitates, hand wrapped around the edge of the door. Inside the room, Castiel turns and stares at him with the same detached look, the one that appears completely impenetrable. "Did you - did you need anything else?"

"No," Castiel says, meeting Dean's stare evenly. "Thank you, Dean."

Goosebumps break across Dean's skin. The urge to run begins building up in front of him. "Of course. No problem, Cas."

With that, Dean shuts the door behind him and hurries halfway down the hall before his vision is too blurry to make out anything. Leaning against the wall and folding his arms over his head, Dean runs over the worst ways to torture someone, to make them scream and beg for mercy. He had a ton of training with Alistair and right now, using his skin as practice doesn't seem quite so bad.

**~. **

Metatron settles himself across an elaborately decorated recliner, the plush velvet melding around him. He sighs, staring out across the quiet expanse of Second Heaven. Right now, angels would normally gather together, voices resonating together in the perfect pitch of the Heavenly Host. If he thinks back hard enough, Metatron can remember the beauty of those times, the connection with the rest of the Host and the overwhelming glory of it all.

He had been gifted it all, at least until the archangels tore it away from him.

The memories hit him then.

_He can hear the Host wailing. They have been ever since the war in Heaven and the Falling of the Morning Star, but now their cries have increased in strength. _

_Their grief is so great, they do not even use Enochian, the gift their Father had given them. _

_Instead, their wordless cries speak all. _

_Our Father is gone. The entirety of Heaven is being searched, and Our Father is nowhere to be found. _

_Metatron tries to focus, the heat of his Grace pulsing as he writes down the last of his Father's instructions. The grief ebbing from his brothers and sisters is so vast, he feels as though he'll be swept away in it. _

_He has to concentrate, because he senses them. They are coming. _

_"Michael," Raphael calls. "There is only one whom the Father might have confided in." _

_The echoing response is like a clap of thunder. Michael is furious, his grief trapped in a storm of anger. "Father should have confided in us. His firstborns!" _

_"I know, brother," Raphael tries to placate, "but he has not, and we must accept his judgement. What we must accomplish now is to find our Father's Messenger." _

_There is a pause, and then the Heavens begin to shake with the force of Michael's flight. They are coming. _

_Metatron finishes enscribing what he can, tucking it into a corner of his Grace in the hopes that it will remain safe there. He cannot be here. He does not have the answers that they wish and they will slaughter him if he does not. Angels are single-minded in their devotion, and with their Father gone, the archangels are wrathful. No, Metatron cannot be here. _

_With a last, lingering gaze over his home, Metatron spreads his wings and takes flight. _

_The first sensation he is aware of is the tears streaming down his vessel's cheeks. _

Metatron blinks, still so unused to his vessel's movements after all this time. His cheeks are wet again, and with each breath he takes, Metatron can feel the tears in his throat, sickly things.

Anger begins to build up in him, along with the complete lack of understanding he gets whenever memories of Heaven return. He had never asked to be a part of this. All Metatron had done was praise his Father and enscribe his teachings. The experience of being in the Lord's presence cannot be expressed in any terms, and Metatron feels the ache of that loss deep in his Grace.

His bleeding Grace. Because even after you run from Heaven, you can never fully escape.

Two months after Metatron had taken a vessel, Michael and Raphael had found him. The things that they had done to him...it makes Metatron shiver just thinking about it. However, the damage to his vessel had been fleeting. It had been the damage to his Grace that had crippled him.

After demanding answers he could not give, Michael had torn Metatron's Grace in two. It lies within Metatron like a shrunken, bleeding beast, flickering in and out of consciousness. He used to be one of the most fearsome Angels of the Lord and now...now he is nothing. If not for Castiel's help, Metatron would not have had the power to ascend to Heaven.

But now he is here, and the thought makes Metatron smile. He rises up off the recliner, stretching as he peers down at First Heaven. Human souls are not as nurturing as an angel's Grace, but they will suffice. And now he has them all to himself. Starting with the one soul that reminds Metatron of those dark first months on Earth.

With a groan, Metatron releases his grip on his vessel and floats free, the terrible ache in his Grace making itself known immediately. His vessel blinks their eyes, coming blearily into awareness. When at last the man looks up at Metatron, he screams, his eyes burning in their sockets.

With a terrible laugh, Metatron reaches forward, toward the man's soul, tearing through bone and muscle.

**~.**

-to be continued-


	3. three

**Skyfall**

-part three-

**~.**

_"When everything goes to hell, the people who stand by you without flinching - they are your family." _

_- Jim Butcher_

**~.**

_He doesn't know where he is. Around him is desert, the air shimmering in the heat like a mirage; twenty feet in front of him sits what appears to be an abandoned barn. Several wagon wheels lie on the ground, spokes broken, jagged and discarded. _

_Sam rubs a hand across his eyes and blinks a few times, trying to orient himself. Dimly, he realizes that his arms are no longer glowing with the otherwordly light summoned by the trials. He'd gotten so used to the pinpricks of light and pain shifting just underneath his skin - like a predator just waiting to strike - that to be without it almost feels wrong. Especially after Sam had determined that the pain he was experiencing, the blood clotting the back of his throat and the rush of heat in his limbs after the trials, was cleansing him. Ever since consuming the demon blood and losing himself in the elation that came with so much power, Sam has felt sickeningly tainted. _

_Perhaps he's purified now. Sam doesn't feel any different, though. What if it didn't work? What if he's condemned to live with the urge to drink demon blood again, just a little, just enough to get in control aga-_

_He studies his hands, trying to dismiss his thoughts. They're shaking, and his fingernails are crusted with dirt. _

_I__'m done with all that, Sam tells himself, remembering the effortless way in which he'd been able to exorcize demons. Never again. _

_"Hello, Moose." _

_Sam's eyes fly up, muscles tensing in anticipation. He sucks in a breath. _

_Crowley lies on the ground several feet away, his head adorned with a crown of thorns. Around his neck, a thick clasp with binding symbols has been attached, one similar to the ones in the dungeon at the Men of Letters' bunker. A chain slinks away from the clasp, trailing across the dirt and raising back up again to where it's wrapped firmly around a hand with red-chipped nails. _

_"For once, you manage to tell the truth," the woman sneers, jerking on the chain and making Crowley sputter. "I suppose you aren't entirely useless." _

_Sam stares at the woman, trying to place her. With wavy, dark brown hair cut shoulder length and blue eyes as cold as death, Sam thinks he would have remembered her. The longer that he stares at her, however, the clearer she becomes. _

_"Sammy," the woman purrs, tilting her head and smirking at him. Her white teeth glint in the sun. "You've been trying my patience." _

_There's something in her eyes that reminds Sam of - no. It couldn't be. His blood runs cold. Sam opens his mouth, ready to ask her what the hell she's doing here. His hand creeps discretely toward the space between the back of his jeans and his undershirt where Sam keeps his handgun. _

_At that moment, the woman flicks her fingers, a tiny movement. Sam goes soaring backward, pain searing through him as he skids across the ground. _

**~.**

Sam flies up out of his bed with a gasp, right hand going instinctively to his nightstand where he keeps a gun just in case. Pain lances across the same arm and Sam glances down, biting his lower lip and stifling a groan. The skin is pale again, white-hot energy looming just underneath the surface.

_Dream_, he thinks, taking a breath. _Just a dream_.

Running a hand through his tangled mop of hair, Sam tries to reorient himself. He doesn't have any windows in here - kind of impossible underground - but the lights outside his door have dimmed as they only do throughout the day and his internal alarm clock has hovered somewhere around mid-morning.

That's when Sam remembers: the trials, the angels falling, and a thin line of panic in Dean's voice as he'd whispered, _"No, Cas." _Dean must have somehow gotten them back to the bunker, probably by use of the Impala. Sam briefly wonders if Dean's driving skills had managed to keep the Impala from being wrecked by a flaming ball of falling angel. He'll hear about it in a minute, if that's the case.

Angels falling. The concept seems unreal even now. While Dean had stuck to his philosophy of _seeing, not believing _in the past - ironic, considering his best friend is now an angel - Sam had been convinced of angelic existence from the beginning. He had probably read every bit of lore out there on angels, eagerly soaking up anything he could about these majestic warriors of God. Even after Sam and Dean had figured out what a douche God and most of the angels were, Sam still found himself awed by their power.

It doesn't seem possible that someone could have torn all of the angels from Heaven.

With a groan, Sam twists in bed, dangling his feet out from underneath the covers. Odd. He doesn't remember putting socks on last night. _It was last night, wasn't it?_

As he exits the room, Sam tries to ignore the heavy weight in his arms and legs. It feels sort of like he's been hit by a bus a few times, but there isn't any use grumbling about it, especially when Dean will only go all worrying-mother mode. Still, it's different than the heat almost too hot to handle before. This pain is more of an ache, and Sam isn't sure whether that's a good thing or a bad thing. But he'll find out. Surely there's a journal in the bunker somewhere about the symptoms involved with the trials to close hell.

_The trials that I failed to accomplish_. Sam has to pause a moment as he remembers that part. He presses his lips together, guilt thick in his chest. All of that pain and suffering he'd gone through, only to back out of things at the last minute because he was afraid. Dean can blame this on himself all he wants, but the truth of the matter is that Sam was _afraid_. Afraid of the physical changes the trials had brought about, scared of dying. He'd planned on dying at the end of it all. What else could the sacrifice have been?

Now they have to live with the fact that Sam saved himself and doomed the rest of creation in the process.

Sam shakes his head. _We'll just keep moving forward and killing those sons of bitches like we always do,_ he tries to reassure himself. It doesn't really work, doesn't make him feel better, but Sam hadn't expected it to. Eventually, however, if he proves it to himself by exterminating every last demon off the face of the planet, he'll believe it. Hopefully.

As Sam roams the corner, he sees that the room two doors down from Dean's is unlocked, the door slightly ajar. Suspicion rises in Sam's thoughts and he tenses again as he approaches, unsure exactly what it is could have gotten in here. The tension begins seeping from his shoulders, however, as he notices the trench coat lying across the back of a chair in the room. It's nearly unrecognizable, covered in dirt and what looks a little too much like dried blood, but there's only one reason it would be here.

Sam draws closer, scanning the room quickly. His brow furrows. He'd have expected Cas to be resting or something. After all, the guy must have fallen along with the rest of the angels, right? Maybe he's with Dean, doing that personal space thing that Dean has stopped trying to correct. Sometimes Sam wonders if Dean even minds anymore.

Dean isn't in his room either, but Sam isn't surprised by that. Even now, Dean barely gets his six hours, unable to sit still when there's a world out there that needs saving. Even if that world happens to be the fridge, waiting to be stocked with six thousand kinds of tomatoes. Sniffing the air, Sam smiles tiredly. Looks like Dean is making them breakfast, and Sam would never tell his brother this, but Dean is a damn good cook.

Slowly, working through the ache in his muscles, Sam makes his way to the kitchen. Dean is alone, surprisingly, dressed in jeans and a gray t-shirt with a spattering of holes near the hem. He's quiet as he stirs what smells like bacon in a pan over the stove, periodically adding a dash of flavoring. To the side of the stove sits a bottle of beer, a brand which Sam doesn't recognize. He certainly didn't buy it, and he's almost positive that it wasn't in the fridge yesterday.

Just as Sam opens his mouth to announce himself, he sees an angry red cut half covered by the sleeve of Dean's shirt. It lances down across his right shoulder, splitting open the skin. Around the edges of the cut drops of blood bead, struggling to break free. It doesn't look as though Dean has treated it yet, which is unusual, considering that Dean is always the one going on and on about avoiding infection.

"Did a tree branch snag you last night?" Sam asks, breaking the silence.

Dean whirls around, cursing as the edge of the same arm brushes the sizzling pan. A red welt instantly begins to emerge on Dean's skin, but Dean doesn't seem to notice. He's too busy staring at Sam as though Sam is a ghost come back to haunt him. Now that Sam really has time to take a look, Dean looks terrible. Besides the cut on his arm, there are several rings of blue bags under his eyes and Dean is slouching as though he doesn't have the strength to stand right.

Disbelieving hope breaks through the shock in Dean's eyes. "Sammy?" he asks hesitantly, waving the spatula he'd been using on the bacon in front of him like a weapon. "Is that you?"

"Who else would it be?" Sam asks, his stomach sinking. "Dean, what's wrong?"

Immediately the panic in Dean's face is wiped, locked behind the bittersweet smile that Dean always manages to put on. In Dean's eyes, though, Sam can still see panic and hope battling each other. "Sorry man. It's been a bit crazy around here the past couple of days. Seems like the demons were just waiting for you to go comatose before they attacked."

"They found the bunker?" Sam asks, face draining of color. The second part of Dean's answer completely passes him by.

"Nah," Dean says with a shake of his head. "A lot of the angels fell nearby, is all. The demons have been going crazy, trying to stake 'em out." He rubs his eyes and Sam realizes again just how tired his brother looks. Behind them, the bacon begins to crackle more urgently.

"You've been hunting them?" Sam confirms, although with one look at the main table they always eat at, he doesn't need to wonder. Dean has laid out several of their more popular weapons: Ruby's demon-killing knife, Dean's homemade blade from Purgatory, and an assortment of spray paint cans and salt cannisters.

"Yeah." Dean turns toward the bacon as smoke begins to rise toward the ceiling. Hurriedly, he turns off the burner and drops the bacon onto a paper towel lying on the countertop, wrapping it in foil before turning back to Sam. "I've been trying to locate some of the angels, too," Dean adds, mouth twisting into a grimace. "But they're harder to find than I thought they would be."

"What, did you think they would scratching their heads over parking meters or something?" Sam half-jokes.

Dean rolls his eyes. "Maybe. I don't know. They might have been Warriors of God or whatever, but that doesn't mean they know how to survive down here."

"And you're doing all that out of the goodness of your heart?" Sam asks, quirking an eyebrow. It isn't as though Dean doesn't have a good heart. Sam has seen it plenty of times when they're out saving people from the monsters in the night, but Sam hadn't expected Dean's compassion to extend to the race he'd deemed _"a big bag of dicks."_

Dean's cheeks go faintly pink. He turns away, mumbling irritably, "Geez, Sammy, I have a heart, you know."

Sam thinks of Castiel's trench coat lying in the room Dean must have given him and thinks, _Yes you do_. He thinks back over the conversation and finally, _finally_, it hits him. He takes a step back, eyes widening in shock.

"Sammy?" Dean sounds alarmed as he hurries toward his brother's side, hand coming up to squeeze Sam's shoulder. "Sam, what is it?"

"You said days," Sam answers quietly, head spinning. "How many days was I out, Dean?"

Dean hesitates. "Six days," he says after a long pause.

Sam makes an odd, squacking sound in the back of his throat. _I was asleep for six days? No wonder Dean looks like such a mess!_

"You needed time to heal, is all," Dean continues on, words tripping over each other as he tries to reassure Sam. He squeezes Sam's shoulder.

"I left you to deal with those sons of bitches on your own?" Sam asks, still reeling from the news. After screwing up the trials, the least Sam could have done was stay awake and help Dean take care of the demons which _of course_ would be swarming to deal with the newest threat.

"I'm not a damsel in distress," Dean says gruffly, backing away once he's sure that Sam isn't going to topple over. "I can handle a few demons."

Sam is sorely tempted to say, _"Well, you shouldn't have to."_ But he knows that neither of them are going to budge on the issue and so drops it for the time being. "I saw Cas' coat in one of the rooms. Where is he at?"

Dean tenses up. "He isn't resting?" Sam sees his brother's eyes flick toward the hallway and knows that if Dean was alone then he would be marching after the angel.

"He wasn't in there," Sam says slowly, knowing that he has to tread cautiously. Cas has come to mean a lot to Dean, so much so that Dean has forgiven him for all the times he betrayed them and ran off. It stings a bit having to share Dean with someone, but Sam knows that it isn't fair to expect Dean to focus entirely on him, nor healthy. "I did see his trench-coat though, and you know that he wouldn't just take off without it. He loves that thing." _And you_, Sam adds silently.

Dean's jaw works for a minute as he debates what to do. "If he tried to leave..." The statement is left hanging, and the uncertain expression on Dean's face suggests that maybe he doesn't know how to fill it in.

"He wouldn't," Sam reassures him.

Dean shakes his head. "You don't know that." His tone sets off alarm bells in Sam's head.

"Why?" Sam asks, frowning. "Did you guys fight again?" It was bound to happen, actually. If Cas is really powerless, he can't just take off like he normally does whenever a conversation isn't going his way. Eventually, they're going to have to work out their issues, and it probably isn't going to be pretty. So long as they actually do it. Dean is known for putting off things until there isn't any need to deal with them anymore, and if he tries to do that with Cas then Sam is going to strangle him.

Dean doesn't answer as he turns back to the kitchen and roots through the fridge for something, pulling out a carton of orange juice a minute later. _That would be a yes, then._

"Maybe you should try talking to Cas," Sam suggests, wondering how he suddenly became his brother's counselor.

"That's what got us in this mess to begin with," Dean growls in a tone which Sam interprets as _drop it_.

With a small smile in his brother's direction, Sam says, "Thanks for making breakfast, man. I'm starving."

Dean offers Sam a smile in return as he brings over the bacon and a glass of juice for Sam. "Yeah, well, I've kept you alive this long. Not gonna let my little brother starve now, am I?" The double meaning isn't lost on Sam, who chooses not to comment on it. Instead, Sam bites into a piece of bacon with enthusiasm, gnawing through gristle and deciding not to point out that he'd much rather have a protein shake.

It's worth it to see the brief flare of satisfaction on Dean's face.

**~.**

Two dark figures stand on the hill opposing the entrance to the bunker, eyes gleaming in the fresh light of day. Both are male, dark-haired and imposing. The one standing several inches taller than his companion turns and orders, "Tell the Queen that we have discovered the Winchesters."

The second figure nods slowly, his eyes swallowed up in black. Then, with a roar, he releases his vessel and erupts toward the skies in a cloud of black smoke.


	4. four

**Skyfall**

-part four-

**~.**

_"You do care," said Dumbledore. He had not flinched or made a single move to stop Harry demolishing his office. His expression was calm, almost detached. "You care so much you feel as though you will bleed to death with the pain of it." _

_- J.K. Rowling: __Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_

**~.**

Castiel stares with drowsy amazement at the space between his bare toes.

Since taking Jimmy as a vessel years ago, Castiel had never taken off the man's socks and shoes. Seeing as he could scrub the imperfections from his vessel with a thought, it had never been necessary to remove Jimmy's clothes. Although, to Castiel's amusement, he has become fond of the man's clothing after wearing it for this short span of time. What had Dean called it once? Ah, yes, a _security blanket_.

_Dean_. The name causes an emotional reaction, one Castiel has no present desire to make sense of. Instead, he focuses on the space between Jimmy's - _his_, now - toes, following the slight indentations of the muscles and the way they move seemlessly along with the bones. If even a tiny piece of the human body can illicit such a visceral reaction, Castiel cannot begin to fathom what running his eyes over the entirety of a human would do.

"Hey, you know, if this isn't a good time..."

Castiel lifts his eyes up, offering Kevin an inquisitive look. The prophet sits across from him in a wooden chair, right hand draped over the edge of the table in one of the bunker's less well-known libraries they've been using. Castiel hadn't had a chance to explore the bunker before these meetings, unable to find the energy to leave his room. Throughout the two days following his argument with Dean, Castiel had remained curled up in the corner opposite the bed, willing his eyes to remain open and his bodily functions to subside. While some part of him had been, and still is, fascinated by his vessel's various needs, his mind had viciously fought against it, trying to find his previous angelic strength. However, on the third day, a note had been shoved under the door, a note from Kevin asking if Castiel would help him translate a passage from a book that might help explain Heaven's current situation. Every day since then, Castiel has joined Kevin in one of the libraries.

Unbidden, Castiel is flooded with irritation. It surprises him how instantaneous the reaction is.

Perhaps some of the irritation leaks onto Castiel's face, because Kevin's mouth twists up into a bitter smile.

"My bad, man. Didn't mean to interrupt your alone time." He gestures toward Castiel's bare feet. "Can't be easy transitioning from an all-mighty being to...well, _this_." His hand motions toward Castiel's too-large suit.

"Human beings are full of their own power," Castiel retorts, having seen it throughout the duration of human existance. "You give yourselves too little credit."

"Hard not to when you're being compared to angels," says Kevin, sharp smile smoothing out into something more welcoming.

"As fascinating as this is," Castiel says. He nods toward the pile of books the prophet had brought to Castiel's attention the other day.

Kevin throws his hands up. "Hey, man, I'm not the one infatuated with my own feet."

"I'm not-" Castiel begins defending himself, only to clamp his mouth shut with the realization that he is a bit fascinated with Jimmy's feet. The wonder of the human body makes sense to him, but Kevin's human mind would not be able to comprehend it.

Kevin chuckles. "Yeah. That's what I thought." Reaching over, he grabs the top book off the stack and runs his hand over the cover. Once, Castiel would have been able to see each speck of dirt dissolve into particles in mid-air. Now, he sees a faint cloud, then nothing. His chest aches for a minute, but Castiel ignores it as best he's able. That's what he has been doing since the Fall, and it appears to be working.

"Hey, Dean made breakfast if you-"

"We have too much too get done," Castiel responds sharply.

With a shrug, Kevin lets it go.

"I wasn't sure about this passage here," he says, handing the book over to Castiel.

On the left page, there is an image of a man encircled by holy light, on his knees in prayer. Below him are a multitude of people coated in darkness, their hands raised toward glowing lights crossing the abyss between them and the man on his knees. The right page is filled with words written in Arabic. Eagerly, Castiel soaks up the words, feeling relieved as he always does when his ability to understand all languages remains unharmed.

"This looks...promising," he tells Kevin after a moment, eyes squinting in focus. "The passage describes a relationship between angels and humankind in the event of angelic sustenance being needed. Such a relationship is rare, considering that angels and humans do..._did_ not share the same part of Heaven." Castiel tries and fails to keep his reaction hidden. His teeth grit.

"What is the 'relationship' exactly?" Kevin asks, his tone wary.

"Angels are usually equipped with their Grace as a form of sustenance," Castiel explains, running his finger down the drawing on the left page. "It is an all powerful source and need never die out. The only exception to this would be in the event that an angel's Grace was damaged in some way. In order to survive, they could potentially feed off of human souls. The souls would act as a bandage of sorts, not healing the wound but keeping it from festering."

"Is there anything else that could keep the wound from festering?" Kevin asks.

After taking a minute, Castiel responds slowly, "No, there is only that. The other options would be to obliterate the angel's existance or..."

He pauses, eyes widening.

"What, Castiel?" Kevin asks. He reaches out and touches Castiel's shoulder, and Castiel flinches back, arm throwing itself up to slap Kevin's away. "Cas, _what_?" He's still leaning forward, eyes focused intently on Castiel, drawn with exhaustion.

Castiel wonders what the last time any of them slept was, but the thought is swept away as his mouth fails to work.

"The, um, the other, er," he stutters, shaking his head in frustration. As an angel, he'd never had any problems speaking. This is...discouraging. "The only other option would be to heal the angel's wounded Grace through communion with the Heavenly Host."

"Okay. And?" Kevin prompts. Immediately, however, his face goes pale. "Wait, that option is toast."

"No, the Heavenly Host isn't a toasted source of carbohydrates," Castiel mumbles, joking without even thinking about it.

Kevin makes a face, running a hand through his shaggy hair and then down over the scruff on his chin. "So, that leaves two options then, if this were ever a scenario."

Castiel, still staring into space with slightly widened eyes, doesn't respond.

"Cas?" Kevin waves a hand in front of the man's face, but Castiel doesn't even blink. He still isn't responding when Dean barges into the alcove, eyes darting quickly across the room until they land briefly on Kevin before hovering on Castiel. Dean is frowning, and Kevin doesn't get paid enough to read what might be under that. What he does notice is that Dean isn't looking away, and that Castiel is stubbornly avoiding Dean's gaze.

"Where the hell did you go?" Dean growls, the question obviously aimed at Castiel.

Castiel shrugs, just barely, still not looking at the hunter. "We had business to attend to."

Castiel sounds so formal, Kevin notices. He glances between the two men, watching as Dean's arms fold and he leans toward Castiel. It's odd, but this reminds Kevin of the lover's spats he saw his mother get into when he was younger. The parallels are freaky.

"They couldn't have waited a few more days?" Dean snarks. Then, God help him, Dean's foot actually taps on the floor.

"No," says Castiel, still too calm.

If possible, Dean tenses up even more. Kevin really doesn't want to be here, especially not if they are going to start shouting. He shifts uncomfortably in his seat.

"No? _No_...is that all you have to say for yourself?" Dean demands. He moves forward then, charging into Castiel's personal space. "You're supposed to be _resting_."

And really, Kevin thinks, that's kind of sweet. The whole reason for their arguments is because Dean is worried. Dean is worried, and doesn't know how to say it, so instead he'll snap and bark orders in the hopes that Castiel will just _stay put _and_ be okay_.

Without warning, Castiel raises his head, eyes snapping up to stare at Dean. Kevin is tempted to shrink back at the heat burning just beneath the surface of Castiel's skin, the heat that was once backed by immeasurable power. Even now, without his mojo, Castiel is still deadly, can probably still take down Dean with the right combination of words.

"You have no say in what I may or may not do," Castiel answers slowly, eyes burning. He is still contained by a calm facade, but only barely.

Dean takes a step back at Castiel's words, the muscles of his face working. If Kevin had to guess, he'd say that Dean looked hurt.

"My bunker, my rules," Dean snaps at last, foot resuming its tapping.

"Very well, then," Castiel says. For a moment, Dean deflates, only to go rigid when Castiel adds, "I'll be out of your hair before the end of the day."

Dean blinks.

Kevin blinks.

The room appears to be holding its breath.

"You're leaving?" Dean exhales, sounding stunned. His face is still tight, but beneath the anger, Kevin can make out an undercurrent of panic. Turns out he just had to study the elder Winchester long enough to get him.

"If that's what I have to do," murmers Castiel. "You are not and will never be my superior. I might have followed your cause when I was a Warrior of God, but don't think for one second that you can pin me underneath your thumb. I am not helpless, Dean. Don't make me prove it to you." The last words are punctuated by an intensity in Castiel's tone that leaves Kevin squirming in his seat.

The two begin staring at each other again, and even though they aren't saying anything, Kevin knows that their eyes are speaking for them. It's one of those odd 'profound bond' things that they've always done, according to Sam.

"Fine, then," Dean remarks bitterly, at last, "if you want to go out there and get yourself killed by a mob of demons, be my guest. Don't know what I was thinking letting you here in the first place." He turns around and marches toward the door, back as straight as a pole.

Castiel leans back slightly, fingers curling around his chair.

"You let me in here because you have a good heart," Castiel says softly, and he isn't staring at Dean's face, but rather at the poorly concealed gash across his right arm. Kevin watches Castiel's expression soften and the man's lips press together, sliding into a thin line.

Dean hesitates by the door, fingers pressing to the brass doorknob.

"Don't," he hisses after a pause, not turning around. "Don't pull that crap. Just...don't."

With that, Dean walks out. He closes the door much more gently than Kevin would've expected. Castiel stares at the door for a long time after Dean has left, expression too pensive to be real.

"Um," Kevin says eloquently after a minute, staring down at his hands. "Wow."

Castiel turns to face him again, expression still almost completely under control. There's something off in his eyes, however.

"As I was saying," Castiel begins briskly.

"Hey," Kevin cuts him off. "Whoa, dude. You practically just ripped each others' hearts out, and you want to focus on dusty books." Not that dusty books don't have their merit, but interspecies relational affairs are more intense.

Castiel gives him a look which suggests Kevin is being stupid. "I don't process emotions the same way that you and Dean do. If you're suggesting that I get something off my chest, I assure you that I am perfectly fine." He returns his attention to the book, mouthing out the words in flawless Arabic.

Kevin pulls the next book out from the pile, figuring that they might as well add to this whole soul-sucking theory, but Castiel stops him with a quiet, "No."

"I picked these out specifically because of content," Kevin tells him. "Might as well start here." Castiel raises his eyebrows.

"I have something else in mind," Castiel says, fingers knotting together as he stares down at his bare toes. The sight is still kind of weirding Kevin out, but hey, it's bare toes or demons. "Find everything you can about Metatron."

Kevin knows better than to ask why. It never accomplished anything with Dean and Sam. But old habits die hard.

"Why?"

Castiel looks up from studying his feet, and Kevin sees the flicker in his eyes again, the edge of ancient sadness. That's when he understands that maybe Castiel's emotions aren't really quite so different from his and Dean's.

"If my suspicions are correct," Castiel says grimly, "then Metatron's seize of Heaven might not have been purely about revenge after all."


End file.
